The Perks of Being a Wallflower:Michael
by Jasey Ray
Summary: Michael was Charlie's best friend until he one day stopped going ot school. And David with the awkward glasses said he killed himself. Told from Michael's POW.


I took in a deep breathe

I took in a deep breathe. "I love you," I said. "Bye." I waited for her to answer.

"I love you, too." She said. "See you tomorrow."

I paused before hanging up. I knew she was waiting for me to hang up first. "I love you." Then I hit the off button. I held the phone in my hand. Replaying her voice in my head. Susan. And all of a sudden I felt so sad. I started crying. I wish I hadn't hung up. I wish I could have heard her say something one last time.

But I got up, and started walking out of my bedroom. To my father's office. I knew I was alone, and I was suddenly very aware of it. My dad had a nice office in our house. It had a big leather chair that I used to sit in and spin when I was little. I remembered. I touched it as I passed. I looked at the desk. Where he sat every night and worked when he came home from his job.

Behind was a big buffet. Filled with papers. It used to hold my grandmother's china. But they're all in the attic now. And I ran my hand along the drawers. I used to love my grandmother. She was always happy and cheerful. But then I remembered how she died. My grandmother was an alcoholic. And when she drank. She drank alone. I never knew that until two years ago. When my mother had had a few drinks herself and told me why my grandmother really died.

I opened the glass doors to it. It was like a window. But it didn't lead outside. It worked like a window as well though. It was an escape just like a window would be. And I shut my eyes and breathed. There was a nice wooden box in the corner of the bottom shelf. I reached out and put my hand on it. And I tried to remember Susan's voice. But it was getting harder.

I took the box in my hand. And I looked at it. The wood was smooth and shiny. Just like my father's desk. I placed it on top of it. Because it was getting heavy, even though it weighed the same as it did when I picked it up. And I thought about my mother and how she locked my bedroom door when she's mad. And I thought about how she drinks like her mother did. And I wanted to cry. But I didn't because I didn't want to feel any weaker than I was. And I thought about my dad. And how all he did was work. And how he never talked to my mother now, because all he did was work.

I opened the box. And looked down. There was my father's shooting gun. Framed in a forest green velvet. It caught the light from the window and shined. It shined like the wood of the box. I touched it. It felt so cold. I picked it up.

It fit my hand perfectly. It was like I had been made for this moment. I thought about Susan. And then suddenly I thought about Charlie. I hadn't thought much about Charlie. I had just given him the poem today. And he had read it. And said something I never wanted to forget. "I hope the boy gets saved." He had whispered.

I shook my head as I heard his voice ringing in my ears. I reached into my back pocket and took out the two copies I had folded up together. I unfolded them, placing the gun back within it's frame of green. And left one on my father's desk. So when he came home, he would find it.

Then I left the gun alone for a few seconds walking slowly to my mother's couch. She had gone to work as well. And I slid the other beneath her liquor bottle. So maybe she'd see it before she was drunk. Then I looked around my living room. On the mantle was my first grade picture. I saw the boy, and forgot his name. He looked so happy. And he looked so young. I wanted to meet that boy and tell him that the grandmother he loved drank when he was asleep and when he wasn't near her. And that his mother would drink someday too. And his father would hit him when he didn't get things just right. And nothing was worth it.

And I stared at that boy. As he smiled so carefree and happily. I walked over to the picture. And ran a finger across the smooth glass. I picked it up and looked down at it. He was always smiling. And it was sick how happy he was. And I hated this boy so much. I hated him. I took the picture and threw it at the wall. I hoped the glass hurt when the wall hit his face. And I hoped the frame broke so there was nothing to save him.

I started walking back to my fathers office. And I took the gun in my hand again. And I left it's box open on that desk. I walked to my bedroom looking up and down the hallway as if it were some secret and I really wasn't all alone.

I shut the door and locked it. Just like my mother did to me. And I looked around one last time. At my bed and my wallpaper. I wanted to tell Susan I loved her one more time, but the gun was getting heavier. And I wanted to tell Charlie I wasn't okay. But I knew he was out seeing his aunt Helen with his mother. So I looked at the gun again. My last friend. And I squeezed it. But the metal was hard, and it wasn't warm like Susan's hand. And it didn't acknowledge me.

So I took one breathe. Blood was already filling my mouth. And I swallowed it. And I took that gun and pressed it to my heart. And I looked forward staring into the green and yellow strips of wallpaper. And I inhaled deeply. And the trigger pulled itself.


End file.
